Regret
by YouLookLikeFOOD
Summary: Sylar wasn't one for regrets. Until a hero who, like him, knows how things work takes his ability. Sylar finally realizes what he's done, and must now come to terms with it. And, he must figure out who he will be without all of the countless murders...
1. Claire

"I'd like to know how that works."

"So would I."

Sylar would never have thought that he would end up here. His hands crackled with electricity. For the first time in his life, he was scared. Genuinely scared. His reply had been nothing but talk. In reality, he was shaking. His legs felt like jelly, and his heart was pounding loudly in his chest. His nerves were stretched to their limit. He swallowed, blinking rapidly. Everything about this was wrong, so very very wrong.

She struck first. He barely saw what was happening until the tree was flying in his direction. He swore as it pinned him to the ground, trying to telekinetically lift it off. For a moment, it seemed as though he would succeed; the tree was hovering above him. But she placed a hand on it, and it crashed on top of him once more.

Sylar was paralyzed. Literally. The impact had shattered his spine. He watched helplessly as she lifted the tree and tossed it to the side.

"This won't hurt a bit." She said. Her voice was saturated with a sickly sweet tone.

Sylar's heart was pounding as his spine began to heal. She walked over to him, standing above his head. She sat down and placed a finger directly on his forehead.

"Any last words?"

Sylar didn't reply. He was still waiting for his spine to heal.

She smiled. "Very well."

Sylar expected to feel some pain, despite how he no longer felt anything. This would be different; he knew that much.

But he never expected it to be like _this. _

A blazing fire sliced through his head. It burned and screamed, blazing through his mind like a white-hot blade. All he could think was pain, pain so great it had been unimaginable before, though now it seemed impossible to think of anything else.

Sylar tried to open his mouth to scream, but he still couldn't move. He barely noticed this fact; all he could think of was the pain in his forehead, which was increasing steadily as the gash grew larger.

His scream ripped through the darkness at last as his spine healed. The sound banished any silence into oblivion.

Instinct saved him. His fingers twitched, and the woman was thrown back. He scrambled to his feet and started running.

He hated this. He was doing something he hadn't done since he'd discovered his ability. You could call it retreat, you could call it strategy, you could call it whatever you wanted.

He was still running away.

The woman wiped blood from her lip and leapt to her feet. A cruel smile curled her lips upward. Her pale green eyes shone against the white moonlight.

Now the game began.

Sylar took to the skies, but she was right behind him. He swore and flew faster, trying to escape.

Her hand shot out, and red light flowed out of her arm and sped towards him.

Sylar tried to dodge it, but another blast caught him off guard. Fire exploded into life, dancing around him.

He had to get to the ground, if only to put the flames out. He swore again and raced downwards. He stopped himself at exactly the right moment, then stood on the earth once more.

He never had the chance to destroy the fire. He felt himself flying, then crashed into something solid. The air was forced out of his lungs and his bones rattled, his skin breaking open where it had directly hit the brick of the wall.

The woman landed calmly in front of him. She smiled, and water appeared in her hand. It quickly closed the distance between them, soaking Sylar completely, but also demolishing the flames.

Sylar gasped as the water fell away from him. He tried to force her to release him, battling against her telekinesis with his own, but hers was much stronger. He remained fastened to the wall.

"P-Please!" Sylar stammered. The words didn't seem to surprise the killer in front of him. She must have heard countless victims beg for their lives.

But it terrified Sylar. He was pleading, _begging _her to release him, even though he knew it would do nothing. This monster had no conscience, as he hadn't. If anything, the pleading response would amuse her, like it had with him so many times.

"Don't do this… please…" Sylar couldn't stop the words, no matter how ineffectual it was. He could not help but see the cruel and bitter irony that was in play here. How many times had he destroyed people, how many times had he caused that much pain, how many times had he laughed when he heard them scream…?

The pale green eyes locked on his own. She laughed softly, an airy, soft noise that floated to the moon above. "It will all be over soon."

Sylar closed his eyes. It was all he could do to stop himself from breaking down completely. He took a deep breath.

A slight pressure went to his head as she placed her finger on his forehead once more.

Sylar screamed, but only one person in the world heard his cries. Only one person in the world saw his pain. And she didn't care; she would never care. Just like he didn't care, just like he had refused to.

Everything Sylar had worked for shattered around him. Everything he'd thought was reduced to dust. Everything that had mattered to him now became insignificant.

The pain increased as the night wore on.

Finally, the woman stood, her job complete. Blood covered her hands, her skin stained crimson up to her elbows.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?"

The gash was already healing on Sylar's head. But he didn't move. He stayed there, his own blood pooling around him. The question itself was insane; it was more than hard. Everything that Sylar was had died that night.

The _real _question was: What was left in its place?

* * *

Sylar didn't move for a very long time. An entire day had passed before he felt he could move at all.

He blinked slowly. He didn't know what to do anymore. He wasn't Sylar. Not anymore. But nor was he Gabriel. He was something new. Something that hadn't existed before.

Slowly, he lifted himself off the ground. The blood on his face had long ago dried, but he hadn't bothered to wipe it off. He couldn't see the point. He couldn't see the point of a lot of things.

A strange feeling threatened to overwhelm him. His heart lurched; it was painful. Very painful.

He thought about it for a moment, trying to place a name to the emotion. When the accurate description came to him, he swallowed.

_Regret. _

As though responding to this, a new wave of it crashed over him. Sylar moaned, dropping to the ground once more. What had he done? _What had he done?_

All those years. All of those people. So many abilities, so many people, so many _lives!_

So much pain. Each and every one of them had experienced the pain he had, and not every one of them could heal like he could.

He straightened. The idea hit him like a ton of bricks. He could never change what had happened. He would always be plagued by his crimes, always be haunted by this life, by the person he had been. He could never go back to it, go back to being incapable of caring, but neither could he forget about it, forget about what he had done.

But he could do one thing. Something that could change _everything. _

He stood once more, his plan complete. There was only one thing he could do.

* * *

Claire Bennet sighed as she walked into the house, setting her keys on the stand next to the door.

She threw her hair back as it trailed irritatingly into her eyes. She kept walking, then searched through a few cupboards for a movie she could watch while she waited for her family to return.

She didn't even notice him until she came into the room. Even then, he blended so perfectly into the shadows that she wouldn't have seen him if he hadn't moved.

She jumped and let out a startled cry.

"Who are you?" She demanded. His face remained hidden in the shadows.

He twitched his fingers, and the light switched on. Claire swore, backing away.

"Sylar!"

For a moment, she glared at him. But he said nothing. His eyes were glazed, focused on something that only he could see.

The killer had certainly seen better days. Claire stared in shock at the mark on his forehead. Dried blood coated it, in a pattern that was clearly recognizable to the cheerleader.

It was what he did. What he had done to her had obviously been done to him.

Sylar closed his eyes. "Hello, Claire."

Claire stumbled back, startled. His voice was much older than it had been. Old and exhausted. It was barely a whisper as it reached her ears.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Claire continued to stare at him, but his gaze was locked on the floor.

Finally, he spoke again. "I came here to apologize."

Silence rang out. The world held its breath as it waited for Claire's reply. Neither of them even breathed.

"Please say something." Sylar said at last, unable to handle the silence.

Claire just continued to stare. First, he'd said he came to apologize.

Now he was saying 'please'?

His eyes drifted upwards, landing on hers at last. There was a deep level of pain in those eyes, a darkness that had not existed there before.

"F-For what?" Claire asked at last.

He smiled, very softly and very sadly. "You know what, cheerleader." It wasn't a rebuke. It was a simple statement of fact. "For this."

His hand went to his forehead, where the unforgettable crimson line blazed against his skin.

She watched his movements carefully, waiting for any sign that it was a trick. But Sylar was still just sitting there, his eyes wide and pleading.

"Then apologize." She said bravely.

His eyes locked on hers. They smoldered softly.

"I'm sorry." He said genuinely. "I didn't know… what it did to you… I'm sorry, so very sorry…" He buried his face in his hands, unable to continue. He took a deep breath.

Claire looked at him, dumbstruck.

"Please say something." Sylar repeated. His words were muffled against his hands.

"What do you want me to say? That I forgive you?" She shook her head. "It can't be done."

"I know that." Sylar admitted, looking at her once more. "For the first time in my life, I completely understand what you mean." He closed his eyes, and Claire had no doubt that he meant exactly what he said. "I wouldn't forgive me, either."

He stood, walking to the door. "I'll go now, shall I?"

Claire stared after him. He was out the door before she ran to it and opened it.

"Sylar!"

He turned to face her.

She bit her lip. "You're going to look a little strange with all that on you." She gestured to the blood covering him. "You could... fix it before you go."

He looked at her. Gratitude filled his eyes.

"Thank you, Claire."

She glowered at him. "This means nothing, understood? Absolutely nothing."

He nodded. "Of course."

She looked at him for a moment, still debating with her own thoughts. Finally, she stepped aside and allowed him to come back in.


	2. Noah

Noah Bennet entered the house with a heavy sigh. It wasn't the best day he'd ever had. But it wasn't necessarily the worst.

Claire walked past him, then froze as she noticed he was there. "Dad!"

He smiled. "Hello, Claire Bear."

Her eyes remained wide. She swallowed, clearing her throat and shaking her head very slightly, as though trying to recover from exceptionally bad news. "You're home early."

He raised an eyebrow. "Not really."

She swallowed again, seeming to resist the urge to look in away, to look behind her, because it would obviously get her in trouble.

"What's wrong, Claire?" He asked. His voice naturally fell into a parental tone, the kind that normally meant being yelled at if the party mess was found.

Claire looked at him somewhat guiltily, but she smiled nonetheless. "Nothing's wrong, dad. Why would something be wrong?"

The other eyebrow joined the first; the girl wasn't a very good liar. "Claire…"

He never finished his sentence. A shadow fell across the doorway down the hall. Noah's sharp eyes took in the situation instantly; he'd spent many years training for this sort of thing, after all.

His eyes widened, and he pulled Claire behind the door frame. She almost cried out, but he kept his hand clamped firmly around her mouth.

"Sylar." He hissed in her ear. He didn't think he needed to explain himself further; the simple, five-letter word was explanation enough.

He released his daughter and reached under a bookshelf. He'd lost count of how many guns he kept in this house, but natural reflex seemed to remember more than his mind did.

He loaded the gun in one swift, fluid movement.

"Dad, wait…"

Noah placed a finger on his lips to silence Claire. He thought he saw irritation flash through her eyes, but he couldn't be certain. At any rate, keeping her safe was a little more important than keeping her from being angry.

He risked a glance around the doorframe, then ducked hurriedly. Sylar hadn't moved.

"Claire?"

The word rang out loudly as Sylar looked around. Confusion filled his features as Noah looked around the doorframe once more.

Noah fired off one shot. Sylar chocked, a gurgling noise filling his throat as he did so.

"Go!" Noah barked at his daughter.

"Dad!"

But he ignored her. Another shot was fired.

There was no sound this time. Noah turned to face Claire, to make her leave, when he froze.

Sylar stood in front of Claire. The cheerleader's eyes were wide as she stared at him.

The second seemed to last for an eternity. Noah waited for the blow that would undoubtedly end his life, hoping with everything he was that Claire would make it out of here alive…

Sylar took the gun from Noah's hand in a single swift movement. Noah expected him to turn it around and raise it level with his head, ending his life.

Instead, Sylar coughed. Blood splattered from his lips as the bullet that had been fired into him earlier clattered to the ground. The wound in his side healed quickly, until the crimson staining his shirt was the only sign it had ever been there.

"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't shoot me again." Sylar spoke softly.

With precise and careful movements, Sylar handed the gun back to Noah.

"You don't get it, dad." Claire whispered. "He came to…"

Sylar raised a hand, and both Noah and Claire flinched. But nothing and no one was sent flying; Sylar had merely been gesturing for her to stop speaking.

"It's all right, Claire." His words were barely a whisper; Noah had to strain his ears to hear them. "I don't want to cause an argument." His eyes landed on her, and he smiled very softly. "Thank you for your time, but I think it's best if I leave now."

And, just like that, he left.

Noah turned to Claire, his eyes round.

"What was _that _about?"

* * *

Rain fell steadily to the earth in a fine drizzle. Sylar walked through it, his head lowered against the wind and his eyes unfocused. The rain normally helped to clear his mind, but at this point, it had never been clearer. He knew what had just happened. He knew what had to be done.

Or, at least, he knew the general idea. Apologize. To everyone. Not just those who were alive, but every single person he'd murdered over the years. Visit the graves. Apologize to the families.

And then what? What would he do when that task was finished?

The answer had come to him back at Claire's house. When she'd called him back inside. When he'd cleared the blood from his forehead. When he'd changed his shirt, though the new one was now stained with red from the bullet wound Noah had given him.

It was so simple, when he thought about it. He couldn't run from the FBI anymore; not now that he cared about their lives. He only had one choice.

He had to turn himself in.

But this brought forth more questions. He could avoid the FBI and the police until he'd finished apologizing; he wasn't too worried about that.

It was jail he was worried about.

Of course, Sylar could take care of himself. And he wouldn't mind a cage. Far from it; at this point, he would welcome a prison. He would welcome a life behind bars.

But his life was so much longer than most lives.

What was the sentence for murder? A hundred years? Life? Either way, people would notice when Sylar stopped aging. People would question why a man who had been sentenced to life two hundred years ago looked no different now than he did when he first came.

If he was the only person alive with an ability, he wouldn't mind spending that eternity behind bars. However, that wasn't the case. There were others like him out there; to allow himself to be imprisoned would be to reveal their secret.

And many of them _wanted _to stay hidden. More than that, many of them _needed _to stay hidden. If normal humans found out about people with abilities, there would be too much fear to contain. Things would get ugly.

So he had to think of something else. Something different. Something that would keep him contained, but not allow the world to know about people like him.

"You don't look too happy."

Sylar froze. He knew that voice. He'd only heard it once before in his whole life, but it was imprinted into his memories, burned into his subconscious.

"Come back to finish the job?" He struggled to keep his voice level, not even bothering to turn to face her.

A laugh sounded behind him, a soft, cruel laugh. A face flashed in his memory, and Sylar forced his legs to stay where they were so that he didn't start running.

"No."

Sylar expected to feel relieved, but instead, he felt hollow. The world seemed unreal, as though everything around him was an illusion, that he was just watching the events unfold without actually touching them.

"I thought about it, I'll admit." The voice behind him spoke again. "I thought it would be better to eliminate the competition."

Sylar slowly turned to face her. He felt numb. It was a wonder he'd been able to move at all.

"Fortunately for you, you're somewhat insignificant compared to the others." She smiled, her teeth gleaming in the sun. "No offence."

"None taken." Sylar responded, not surprised to find that he meant it.

"I never properly introduced myself." Her voice was filled with a sickly sweet tone.

He smiled very softly. "I know your name."

She smiled back and extended a hand. "Ah, but it's polite, isn't it? I'm Emily."

"Sylar." He replied, taking her hand. So he would play her little game. Hadn't he once done the same? Played games with those he destroyed?

He started walking, and she walked next to him. "So, why did you come back, if not to kill me?"

She shrugged. "I wanted to see how you were coping. You seemed pretty shook up last time I saw you."

Sylar easily saw through the casual lie, as most would. The only difference was, Sylar knew the truth behind it. He'd once thought the same way Emily did, so he knew what interested her. "You wanted to know what it felt like. What was going through my mind." For a brief second, a small touch of his old anger returned. "Why I ran."

The fury died as quickly as it had come; he couldn't be angry anymore. It was impossible.

"It is strange." Emily admitted. "I would have thought you would be fine with it. You are unable to die. You can barely feel pain. You wouldn't lose your abilities. There was no real downside." She stopped abruptly and turned to face him. "So why did you run?"

Sylar stopped, but he did not turn to her. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

When he finally _did _look at her, it was almost painful. Almost without a conscious effort, Emily's features were twisted with malice. Her pale green eyes were sparkling with hatred.

He tried to look past that. To see the actual person behind the anger. She had very pale skin; the result of too much time spent in darkness. Her hair was light blonde, thrown casually behind her shoulders, cut slightly above the shoulders in one, careless, telekinetic slice. She wore all black, from her t-shirt to her black jeans and tennis shoes.

All this told him what he already knew. What she looked like, and who she was. A person who hid in shadows.

He tried to look even further, down to the details. Her fingernails were unpainted. Her hands looked dry; a result of washing off blood, again and again. A faint bulge showed where some kind of weapon was hidden.

Sylar sighed again; it all pointed to her murderous nature. Her true violent heart.

Still he tried. He tried to find the person behind the killer. She had to have been someone before the ability; just like he had been Gabriel Grey. There had to be someone else.

He never would have thought the answer was in her age. His eyes flickered upwards to hers. They were not tormented by any memories of true pain. They were not sunken in dark circles, there were no wrinkles in them.

And then he searched again, with new thoughts in mind. She was young. There was no sign of cheating age; no plastic surgery or thick makeup.

She hadn't stopped ageing yet; she'd told Sylar before. Her age now was her true age, not hidden by human measures or by an ability.

She was too young. Too young to be hiding in the shadows. Too young to be a murderer. Too young to live this life. Too young to accept killing so easily.

Too young to feel regret.

He opened his mouth without even thinking about it. The words spilled from his lips easily. They were the truth. He would not be ashamed of them.

"I ran because I was scared. I ran because I knew you wanted my ability." His heavy sigh lingered in the air for a moment before he continued. "I ran because I wasn't strong enough to face the fact that what I did hurts more than I wanted to believe. I wasn't strong enough to face what I'd done to so many others."

Her responsive smile was more of a sneer. "You weren't _strong enough? _What, and now you're such a better person because you were forced to face it?"

Sylar looked at her, his eyes smoldering softly. His silence was all the reply she needed.

"What?" She scoffed. "Don't tell me the great serial killer has gone soft? That the terrifying Sylar has changed his ways?"

Sylar stood tall. "One day, Emily. One day, you'll understand."

Something in the way he spoke unnerved Emily. But she couldn't be nervous, she couldn't be afraid. She wouldn't.

So instead, she turned to what she understood. She turned to anger. She turned to hatred and fury.

Sylar saw this as her stance changed. As her voice unconsciously rose. As her hand hovered above her concealed knife without a conscious effort.

"You think you understand everything?" She demanded. Her words had changed into what could only be described as a snarl. "You think that you're so much _better _than everyone else now?"

Sylar observed her reactions carefully, then sighed, shaking his head slowly. "I don't even know who I am anymore, Emily." He looked down. "Which is _why _I understand."

He didn't give her a chance to respond. He just started walking, leaving her confused and furious.

* * *

Sylar looked at the paper, his eyes filled with pain. Another person had been found dead. The top of her head was severed.

He folded the newspaper up and set it down, sitting back on the bench and looking out at the park. His eyes were distant, lost in thought.

Of course it was Emily. She'd been angry. And when she was angry, people died. It was what had always happened before, with Sylar himself.

One day she would understand. He truly believed that.

But he could do nothing for her now. He could only travel his road, could only do what he had planned. He had to repair his past before he could even touch hers.

"Interesting."

Sylar turned to face the speaker. Noah Bennet was watching him with narrowed eyes.

Sylar smiled disarmingly. "Hello, Noah."

Noah decided not to deal with the pleasantries. "You come to my house, _apologize _to Claire, ask me not to shoot you, then leave and kill someone else." One eyebrow shot up as he handed Sylar a newspaper.

"I saw it." Sylar said politely, pointing to his own paper.

The other eyebrow joined the first. "Care to explain your actions?"

"Not really." Sylar sighed and turned away, relaxing on the park bench while he waited for Noah to sit next to him. Noah's curiosity would get the best of him; Sylar was certain of it.

His suspicions proved correct. After barely a moment's pause, Noah came and sat down next to the former killer.

"Oh?" He asked. "And why not?"

Sylar sighed. "It wasn't me."

Noah swallowed, inaudibly to most, but painfully loud to Sylar. "It wasn't you who apologized to Claire?"

"It wasn't me who killed that girl." He corrected, gesturing to the paper.

Noah eyed him skeptically. "It was your style."

"No, it was the ability's style. I'm not the only one out there who knows how things work."

Noah considered this for a moment, then paled very slightly. "Wonderful. All we need is another Sylar."

Sylar smiled softly, but it vanished quickly. "Her name is Emily."

"Oh, so you're familiar with her? On first-name basis, no less." Noah's tone was bitter. "So what? Is she your new killer BFF?"

Sylar looked sadly at him. "Not exactly." He sighed. "Emily is… difficult to explain. She's hurt. More than she knows."

Noah rolled his eyes. "How like one killer to be sympathetic to another."

"I would agree with you, Noah." Sylar said slowly, keeping his temper in check. "But Emily ripped off the top of my head. If anyone has the right to be angry at her, it's me." He faced Noah at last.

Noah couldn't mask his surprise, but he remained harsh. "The irony of that doesn't escape me. You've done the same to so many people, Sylar…"

"I know."

"You did that to my daughter."

"I know."

"And you just expected her to forgive you? Just because you 'apologized'?" His voice was rising slightly.

Sylar shook his head fiercely. "I don't expect her to forgive me. I don't expect that from anyone. I don't expect anything. I just…" He looked down, seeming to find the ground very interesting suddenly. "I just want her to know how sorry I am. And I want her to know that it will never happen again. To anyone."

Noah paused for a second, considering Sylar's words. "What, exactly, are you saying?"

Sylar looked him in the eye. "I'm saying that I'm done. The killing, the murder, the power…" He swallowed. "It's over."

Noah stared at him.

"I plan on apologizing." Sylar continued. "Not just to Claire, but to everyone. To the families, the friends. Visit the graves if I have to." His eyes smoldered. "But then I have to disappear. Forever. The FBI will always be after me, Noah. They'll never stop looking. Eventually, they'll catch me, and I won't be able to get away without hurting at least one of them."

Noah's eyes narrowed. "Why are you telling me this?"

Sylar's eyes were shining with a faint and hidden hope. An idea that had been forming for a while was now beginning to take a definite shape. It could work. It _should _work. "I need a favor, Noah."

"You've got a lot of nerve asking me for something after what you did to my daughter."

Sylar nodded. "I understand that. But it's not for me; it's for everyone else. People with abilities. Including Claire."

Noah considered this, and then gave him a single, curt nod. "You have one minute. Use it well."

Sylar smiled gratefully and launched into his explanation. "Jail could only ever be a short-term solution for me. People would notice if someone who was thrown in jail a century ago still looks like he did when he first came. They'd start to ask questions, and eventually, abilities would be discovered."

Noah raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Enough with the excuses. If you really don't want to be in a prison, just tell me that. Don't try and make it about Claire."

Sylar shook his head. "I don't expect freedom, Noah, and I'm not asking for it. Just the opposite."

Noah bit his lip thoughtfully. "Explain."

"The Company is the only place with prisons strong enough to hold people like me. They're the only people who understand abilities." Sylar said the words in a rush, as though he couldn't get them out quickly enough.

Noah instantly grasped the idea. He looked at Sylar, startled. "You'd turn yourself in?"

Sylar nodded. "I stay imprisoned, the FBI is happy, the Company is happy, and abilities stay a secret. It's the only way."

Noah considered this. "How long will you need?"

"I'm not certain. It could be a while."

Noah nodded. "Understood."

"So you'll help me?"

Noah looked at Sylar for a minute. He was hardly reluctant to agree. However, he was still waiting, still searching for the deception.

Finally, he nodded. "Yes."

Sylar breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you." He smiled warmly, but Noah's instinctual distrust made him wary of that smile.

He stood and extended a hand. "Until next time, then."

Sylar shook it, and Noah left, his mind spinning with unanswered questions.


	3. Molly

The graveyard was a quiet place.

It was a lonely place.

The sun shone softly through the trees, though a bitter wind cut through the air.

It was utterly quiet; even the birds respected the peace and silence that surrounded the place. The grass was brown in patches, but was mostly green. It carpeted the area, a bright color that seemed somewhat out of place with the misery that graveyards were supposed to hold.

Sylar was sharing that misery as he looked down at the grave he'd come for.

_James Walker. _

He sighed. He'd thought this would be easier then apologizing to someone who was still alive, but he'd been mistaken. If anything, this was much harder. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he just stared at the stone.

The stone seemed to stare back, looking into the depths of his mind; the darkest corners that he always wished to keep hidden. But it seemed to completely ignore his desperate pleas for forgiveness, for understanding. It ignored his apologies; those had to be spoken aloud, not forcibly wrenched from his thoughts.

"I wish I could tell you this in person." He said at last. "And it's my own fault that I can't."

His words sounded dull and lifeless, like everything else in this place. There was no echo; they just drifted off into the nothingness around him, completely consumed by the seconds that stole their lives away from them.

"I used to think that there was only one thing in the world that mattered." He continued at last, unable to see another way out. "I thought that life didn't matter." He looked down. "That's why I did it. That's why you're in that grave right now." He closed his eyes. "And… I came to apologize."

Silence answered him. James Walker could not respond; his life had been taken, and there was no way to return it, despite how badly Sylar might have wanted it.

"I stole more from you then your life." He went on. It sounded so cheesy. So fake. But there was no one here who could use it against him; they were all taken from this world in one way or another. "I took you away from your daughter."

And then he heard it. A small, soft gasp. A tiny, pounding heartbeat.

He turned around slowly, realizing at last that he was not alone.

Molly Walker stared at him. There were tears in her eyes.

Sylar didn't move. He remained perfectly still, waiting for her to speak first.

For a moment, the two of them just stared at each other, their eyes communicating silently. Anger and fear were tumbling over each other, creating a strange mixture of emotion across Molly's face.

Finally, she spoke. "I knew you were here. I needed to know why."

Sylar said nothing; he felt it was safer that way. He handled the situation delicately, as though Molly could destroy him at any second.

"What?" She demanded. Sylar had to give the girl credit; she'd come here to face the man from her nightmares, supposedly without anyone to help her. "You can say something to my father's grave, but you won't say anything to _me?_"

Sylar swallowed. "What is it that you want me to say, Molly?"

Despite her anger, she flinched from his words. He was still the creature from her dreams, the monster under her bed. And no matter how quietly he whispered, he was still screaming furiously at her. No matter how gentle he tried to be, he was still hurting her.

He heard her little heart skip a beat.

"I want to know why." She replied. Tears pooled in her eyes, making them glisten in the pale sunlight. "I want to know why you're here."

Sylar carefully knelt down on one knee, so that he was at eye level with her. She took a few steps backwards, but didn't try to run.

"You're going to think I'm lying." Sylar told her. "But I want you to know."

She nodded, waiting for him to continue.

Sylar saw her eyes brighten, ever so faintly. Everyone else in the world spoke to her as though she was too young, too inexperienced, to know any sort of truth. As though she was just something that needed to be protected; and who cared about what she felt? She was something that needed pity, and nothing more.

No one treated Molly Walker as an equal.

Sylar, on the other hand, decided to. This girl had seen her parents murdered in front of her eyes. She had been chased down for her ability. She had seen and done more then most people ever could do.

She didn't need pity. She needed respect.

"Molly, I'm sorry. And that's why I'm here. I came to apologize to your father." He tried to swallow his anxiety, continuing without thinking about his words. "I know I can never bring him back, despite how badly I want to."

Her eyes narrowed distrustfully. "And why should I believe you?"

He shook his head. "I know you won't. But every word I'm telling you is the truth. I'm not going to lie to you, Molly." His eyes locked on hers. "And I'm not going to hurt you, either."

She glowered at him.

"I'm sorry." His words were a faint whisper by this point. "I'm so sorry for what I did to you. And if there was a way I could change it, if there was _any _way I could bring your parents back, I would. If there was a way I could change my involvement in your life, make it so that you never met me, you never had to deal with me, I would. But I can't."

He stood, and she winced, but allowed the action.

"I can't change the past." He whispered. "So I'm going to change the future. I'll never bother you again, Molly. As far as you need to know, I don't exist."

She looked at him with wide eyes. The surprise had finally won the battle against her disbelief.

"Isn't that what you want?" He asked softly.

She thought about his words. There was absolute silence; the only noise came from their two heartbeats, a sound that was inaudible to her tiny ears. The wind cut into their skin as they stood there, staring at each other. Molly's hair whipped about in the breeze, covering her face in streaks of brown.

Finally, she spoke. "If I say yes, will you leave me alone? Forever?"

He nodded.

"You'll never come back?"

"Never." He promised. He meant it. He absolutely meant it.

She nodded. "Then go."

He nodded back and turned around. He started to walk away when she called him back.

"Sylar!"

He turned.

"Never come back, do you hear me?" Her eyes blazed with a hidden fire, a fire that had been destroyed over the years by everyone's pity, and their thoughts that she was _only _a 'poor little girl.' "_Never._"

He nodded his agreement. "Of course."

He turned away again. He didn't see Molly turn to her father's grave. He didn't see her relief that she wasn't joining him flow down her face in the form of tears.

He didn't see her cry.

He _did_ hear her sobs as he walked out of the final gate. He did hear her small cries. But he left her with the dignity she deserved. He said nothing, and he would never say anything. He would keep the memory of her cries hidden, deep in his mind, until the day he died.

* * *

The wind played across Sylar's skin as he walked. His eyes were locked on his feet as his mind raced. Could he have apologized in any other way? Could he have done anything different? It seemed to him that the only way he could ever help Molly was by leaving her alone. Forever.

Was it for the best? Sylar had no doubt. Molly needed to have a proper life. A proper family. She _needed_ it.

He sighed. He had no problem with leaving Molly alone for the rest of her life. He just wished that their conversation wouldn't keep replaying, over and over, in his mind. He wished he could just say that he had done everything right, instead of second guessing himself.

And Sylar kept walking, away from Molly Walker, away from James Walker's grave, away from the apology he believed he failed. He couldn't change his words; he could not erase the past.

Erasing the past! Sylar sighed wistfully. If only such a thing were possible. Then this wouldn't have happened. None of it. He wouldn't have these abilities.

But such a thing was impossible. Even Hiro, a time traveler, could not change something as enormous as that. His past was set; it was locked in the heart of time. He was meant to be a killer. He was meant to be a monster.

And he was meant to realize what he was, before it was too late.

But there was one nagging thought on his mind. One thing he had to do, one person he had to apologize to, one who did not have a proper grave.

_No._

Everything in him protested against the action; the very thought of it caused him pain, pain that was second only to the pain of that night, when Emily had taken his ability.

_You're going to have to do it someday. _His rational side told him.

_Not yet. _He pleaded with himself. _Please, not yet. _

But he found himself walking in that direction anyway. No matter how painful it was, it had to be done. He had to do it.

_Please. _

A tear rolled down his cheek. The damp streak surprised him; he didn't _cry. _Not anymore.

Sylar didn't cry.

Gabriel, on the other hand, might have.

His stride lengthened. His pace quickened. He was walking, he was jogging, he was _running._

And then he was flying. He was off the ground and in the skies, going as quickly as his ability would allow.

The wind roared in his ears, and he sped even faster. A loud _BOOM _signaled when he had broken the sound barrier. And still he flew faster. The wind was battling against him, battering him and trying to throw him off course, but any damage it caused was healed in an instant.

And then he saw it.

He halted in mid-air, and the wind abruptly stopped, only to start again as gravity took hold of him once more, the Earth jealously stealing him back from the skies. For a moment, he fell freely, his stomach leaping upwards into his throat and the wind increasing once more.

At the last possible second, he stopped himself. However, his momentum was too great; he collapsed onto the rocks, flipping over once, twice, three times, before ending up in a heap on the rocks. Crimson stained the sand, pooling around him.

He swore and fixed his bones so that they would heal properly. The wounds sealed themselves quickly, until the only sign they'd ever existed was the blood that still stained his clothes and skin.

He didn't stand up for a long time. He just sat there, listening to the waves. Wishing they would wash away the murder he'd committed, in a spot just a short distance to his left.

The rocks in that area seemed red, though it must have been his imagination. He'd burnt the body himself. He'd set it on fire with a single blast of blue electricity. There could be no blood.

The sun was setting, and he watched it lower out of the sky. Carefully, he stood and walked over to the spot where it had happened, where he had killed her. He sat down again, right next to where her body was, and he lay down, as though she was still there, still able to talk to him.

He watched the sun disappear in oranges and reds, faint hints of pink and streaks of dying blue. The sky grew dark, little pinpricks of light staring at him across the universe. The moon glowed and shone, filling the beach with its cold, pale light.

He closed his eyes. He could almost imagine she was there, watching this with him. He could almost see her, lying next to him, instead of this mockery of a grave that he had given her. There was nothing to mark where she had died; but he remembered. He couldn't forget.

When he opened his eyes again, he half expected to see her next to him, smiling at him once more. But he was alone, just like he had been so many other times.

He didn't have the courage to speak. He wanted to apologize; he wanted to say how sorry he was. But he couldn't. His throat was locked, and his lips refused to open, to form the words that were screaming in his mind.

Finally, _finally, _it happened. His whisper tumbled into the night air, sounding impossibly loud in the silence, echoed a thousand times by the waves.

"I'm sorry, Elle."


	4. Elle

He didn't speak for a long time. He just stayed there, lying perfectly still.

Emily waited. Her ears, newly strengthened with Sylar's ability, strained to hear anything he wanted to say. She had remained invisible to him for all those miles that he'd traveled in the sky; she'd put too much effort into discovering his secrets to give up now.

She sat down on the rocks, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin in her hands.

Sylar dragged himself to a certain spot; the significance of which only he knew. She could easily take it from his mind, of course, but she wanted to see what he did first.

He collapsed onto the ground. He didn't move; he barely breathed.

And he stayed there for a long time. Sunset surrendered to the night long before he said a word.

_"I'm sorry, Elle." _

When the words finally entered world around them, they took Emily off guard. She raised an eyebrow.

Sylar fell silent again.

Sorry? Sylar was saying… sorry? He was _apologizing? That _was his big plan?

Emily would have laughed out loud, but she knew that if she did, he would hear her. She stifled the laughter that was rapidly growing out of control.

She couldn't understand it. How could Sylar, someone who had it right for years, suddenly just fail like this? Become a weak, pitiful _coward_? How could he sink so low?

She snorted quietly. One of the most powerful people alive, now turned into this weakling. It was enough to make one sick. People like that, people who actually looked back on their past with-dare she say it? - _Regret _never stood a chance in this world. They would forever be haunted, tormented by the things they'd done.

It was better, easier, to forget about it. To focus on the only thing that mattered; power. Don't think about the people; they didn't matter. They were nothing. They just got in the way.

A small, cruel smile crossed Emily's lips. Time to have some fun…

* * *

Sylar sighed heavily, closing his eyes, wishing he could forget everything he had done. If only things were different…

"Why did you do it?"

Sylar jumped, leaping to his feet. Years of being a murderer did not die so quickly, and his homicidal instincts were still easy to trigger.

His heart froze in his chest as shock paralyzed him. He didn't dare move. He didn't think. He didn't breathe.

The strange mixture of emotions clogged his throat. He didn't know exactly what to feel. Fear? Closer to terror. Shock, certainly. There was a faint smile tugging at his lips, but he couldn't quite say that he was _happy._ Possibly horrified. The tears burning in his eyes indicated sadness, though the lancing pain in his chest indicated that it was more than that. Much more.

He stared at her for the longest time, taking in the face he thought he'd never see again.

She stared back at him, those dark eyes that shouldn't be open locked on his.

"Just tell me, Sylar." She insisted, her voice soft. "Tell me why you thought I deserved…" She chocked, a tear falling down her cheek. "Why you thought I deserved to die."

Sylar took a step towards her, pleading with her. "Oh, Elle."

But Elle's face twisted in anger. "No, Sylar! I thought that you could change! I really… really thought you could, but it was all a _lie!_ You _lied to me!_"

Sobs ripped their way out of her chest. "_Stay away from me!_" She all but screamed at him as he tried to step towards her.

"Elle, please, I'm so sorry…" Sylar pleaded with her. "Please, please, just listen to me, it's all right, I won't hurt you…"

"No! You don't change, Sylar! You never change! You're nothing but a murderer!" She turned and started running.

"_Elle!_" Sylar was all but begging. "Elle, please! _Please!_"

But she kept running. Sylar did not try and follow her. Instead he sank to his knees, unable to run, unable to think, unable to do _anything._

He stayed there for a long time, just staring after her. Perhaps she'd only been a hallucination. That was the most logical explanation, after all. But to him, it was so real, so very real, and her pain, her tears, brought it all back. The pain, the betrayal…

"_This_ is what happens when you _look back._"

* * *

Emily stepped in front of Sylar, remaining invisible. He looked so completely _pathetic. _His eyes were rimmed with red as he stared after 'Elle'.

She let out an exasperated sigh, shimmering into sight in front of him. "_This _is what happens when you _look back._" She told him.

He looked up at her. He looked so _tortured, _as though he was in the worst agony imaginable. Pitiful, really. This hardened killer, the man who took lives without thought, _crying _because of some girl. How did a man like him become so _weak?_

His tear-filled eyes lit up with the realization of what she'd done. He almost glared at her, but his heart was too weak for real hatred.

"It was you." He whispered. His voice cracked as he spoke, and there was so much pain and misery in it that she almost lost her lunch.

She didn't even dignify him with a response. She just walked slowly behind him.

"You made me think… that Elle…" his voice cracked again. "That she was here…"

She didn't reply. She started to circle around him, watching him carefully.

"Why?"

She arched an eyebrow. "Because you needed to see how absolutely _ridiculous _you're being."

Sylar blinked, unsure of how to respond to this, still mourning for the second loss of his precious _Elle._

"Don't you see, Sylar?" She asked in a whisper. "Don't you see how foolish this is? You're losing control over this because you're allowing yourself to be _emotional. _You're allowing yourself to regret what you've done."

She knelt down next to him, her eyes locked on his. "What's the use of regret? Why should you allow pain to enter your life when there's no _point _to it?"

Sylar's eyes glittered. He didn't reply, so Emily went on.

"Regret is _worthless. _It makes you weak, Sylar. And I know you hate weakness; all of us do."

His eyes narrowed. "Don't include me in your 'us', Emily." His voice was soft but dangerous, anger seeping in slowly.

Emily's eyes smoldered. "You can't _change_, Sylar. You _are _one of us, whether you like it or not." She gently stroked his hair back, the snake putting on the disguise of a mouse.

Sylar's hand flew upwards to stop hers. His fingers wrapped around her wrist.

She smirked, waiting for the inevitable fight. He was a man of anger, of hatred. That was all people like them understood. And that was the way it was _meant _to be.

But Sylar's movements were incredibly gentle as he moved her hand down, away from his face. He took his hand off her wrist carefully, then slowly pulled himself to his feet.

She stared at him. She didn't understand. If anyone had done to her what she had done to him, they wouldn't live to see the next sunrise. And Sylar was _exactly _like her. He should be snarling with rage, attacking her, using every ability he had in a desperate, furious attempt to destroy her.

He shouldn't be _like this._

He looked into her eyes. His voice was so soft that even _her_ ears had to strain to her it. It was delicate, almost fragile. Yet it held a peculiar strength to it.

"Don't include me in your 'us'." He repeated. The wind tried to whip the words away, but Emily caught them.

He turned around and started to walk away.

Emily just stared. It couldn't be like this. He couldn't walk away from her. No one walked away, no one _ignored _her! Everyone hated her! They wanted to see her die; they wanted to kill her themselves! Or they ran, terrified and screaming, pleading and begging.

But never once, in all of her life, had Emily been ignored.

"You're one of us!" She called after him. "That's all you are, and that's all you ever_ shall_ _be!_ You think that you can change _what _you are?"

His head lowered. "I can try." He whispered.

And he kept walking, leaving her behind in the dark.

* * *

She was so _young._

It was all Sylar could think as he left Emily behind him. She was younger than he had been, when he first became Sylar. When he found his abilities. Far younger.

And yet, she was so much more _powerful _than he was. How many people had she killed to acquire those abilities?

He sighed heavily and kept walking down the beach. The waves gently touched his shoes, and then receded, laughing, before daring to tap his shoes once more.

He turned suddenly, staring at the waves. In the darkness, they had become perfectly black. Color was bleached out of everything. He could see nothing other than the moon and the stars, and the black water that shone as it reached its peak before it collapsed back into the darkness it had come from.

He took a step towards it. And another. And another.

He kept walking, slowly, steadily, surely. The water rose, covering his shoes, then his ankles, then his knees. Finally, he was up to his waist in the freezing dark ocean.

He shivered, then plunged into the water.

Underneath the turmoil and violence of the waves, beneath the mayhem and chaos, the world was absolutely silent.

As he swam deeper and deeper, not bothering to breathe, the silence increased. There was no remnant of the waves this far into the ocean; it was just peace and quiet.

The absence of sound was so absolute that it felt as though there was absolutely nothing there. Sylar was alone, alone in the dark and the cold and the silent.

He allowed himself to sink to the bottom of the ocean, unaware of exactly how far he'd gone away from the shore. He didn't really care, either. He didn't know how far down he was, either, except that the pressure was slightly uncomfortable. But he didn't care about that. He didn't even care that his lungs were screaming at him for oxygen. He couldn't die. He could feel pain, but he couldn't die.

The pain, eventually, ceased as the cold gripped him. His hands had gone numb long ago, and now so was everything else. He felt his heart slow down.

Briefly, he wondered if this _could _kill him. It could stop his heart, certainly. And if he couldn't move, he'd never be found. It would, in effect, kill him.

But right now, he couldn't bring himself to care. All he could do was listen to the silence.

It was a hard thing to find, silence. Noise was always there in his life, from the constant hum of traffic to the TV to the radio playing in the background. And, of course, the many, many clocks that he had once worked with.

There was always _noise. _There was never silence, never this absolute peace and calm. He'd never known a place this quiet.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, just listening to the nothingness. He closed his eyes, trying to clear his thoughts.

Finally, he pushed off the ground and began to rise to the surface.

The higher he went, the lighter it got. He'd been down there for hours; it was already afternoon.

He propelled himself out of the water, taking immediately to the skies. He coughed and spluttered, water pouring out of his lungs. He shook himself off, flying above the clouds and into the light of the sun.

He shivered. It seemed almost colder here than it had at the bottom of the ocean. He started flying, racing home. Or, whatever abandoned place was now 'home'.

The wind raced past him, faster and faster as he picked up speed. He hadn't done much in the past few days, but he had figured out one thing while he was at the bottom of the ocean.

He knew who he had to apologize to next.


End file.
